Rush
by Dorminchu
Summary: Aoba degenerates into old habits. Sly Blue gives in to temptation. Mink is not made of stone. It ends about as well as you might think it would.


_a/n: Let it be known I cringed a lot during the making of this, because man, Aoba's voice actor is a very emotionally versatile guy. Listening to him make sounds of distress over and over is not the most entertaining experience, but I did watch the whole club scene for the sake of getting everything down properly._

 _Now given the fact that Aoba's under the influence of drugs his own literal demons, I don't know if my interpretation of this scene is going to come across as very…consensual. Although I think that's the point, to begin with. Mink's not a nice guy._

 _That's not to say that you ought to feel pressured out of leaving feedback, even if you don't like my spin on DMMD at all! I'm not a sissy, I can take constructive criticism. But please, I at least ask that you explain why you did or didn't like an aspect, or I'll never get better._

* * *

The lobby thrums with the strength of the bass from the dancefloor just beyond the main gate, walls black and mauve intercut with streaks of violent white to serve for illumination. At the end of the room is a large black gate, smooth and embellished with the same, graceful butterfly logo as the one on Mink's card. The room glows in lilac and people shuffle around merrily. One patron grabs another behind the elbow and shouts at him in drunken enthusiasm.

"Why'd you have that card?" Aoba asks, voice rising to be heard over the noise. A bouncer, clad head-to-toe in sharp black leather, complete with matching sunglasses, stalks over to the two and grabs the loud one, yelling at the pair. The two are quickly escorted out.

Mink tilts his head a fraction to follow the three, mildly curious. "It's not mine. Purchased it from a jailer who couldn't use it anymore."

Aoba frowns. "Couldn't use it anymore?"

Mink grunts. "He's dead."

"…So you meant to come here all along," Aoba says slowly, disregarding this perturbing statement with some difficulty, "to dance?"

"Everyone here is high on the lights," Mink says. The phrase strikes a chord with Aoba. "It's basically a psychedelic, but without the permanent side-effects. Popular, too, but it's expensive to produce. The establishment uses light and sound to induce semi-consciousness. Some people can handle it better than others. The dancefloor is just behind that gate." Mink stops, glancing over his shoulder at Aoba with an expression that's hard to read. "Scared?"

Aoba senses that he's being condescended to. His expression hardens. "Huh? No way."

Mink smirks, walking over to another bouncer and exchanging a few words. Aoba's glare goes unnoticed. To Aoba's surprise, Mink makes a turn from the big door and moves instead to a side-door, which, Aoba soon discovers, opens up to a smaller discothèque.

Even through the doorway, Mink's broad form is emphasized by the flashing lights. Aoba's gasp is drowned in the pounding music. Ren asks him something but Aoba shakes his head. He can hardly hear himself think. He gazes around the room and counts about ten to twenty people around him, hazy black outlines moving against the flashing lights.

A strong hand clamps down on his wrist. Aoba spins and sees it's Mink. Squinting through the chaos, Aoba sees Mink is leading him toward a set of stairs by the door they came in through.

Scaling the staircase, they happen across a smaller sub-room, set with chairs and sofas and tables. One of the walls is essentially a giant window where they can watch the dancers flail around. Aoba notes with immense relief that the noise has lessened dramatically.

Mink releases Aoba and takes a seat on one of the chairs. Aoba sits adjacent to him on a sofa small enough for one person. His wrist throbs slightly. Aoba rubs the sore spots, wondering if he'll have a bruise.

"Well?" Mink asks. "Are you going to sit up here with me all night, or do you want to have some fun?"

Aoba's eyes narrow. "What did we even come here for?" he asks, somewhat irritably. His head is killing him. He rubs his temples in the hope of easing the pain.

"Go ahead. Stretch your wings a little. I'll wait."

Aoba stares at Mink skeptically. "Are you…messing with me?"

Mink smirks, but says nothing.

Aoba does not return the expression, determined to look away. He gets to his feet and almost immediately his head begins to swim.

"Fuck!" Aoba hisses, and quickly sits back down, eyes screwed shut and palms braced against the sofa. It doesn't help much. His stomach churns.

Mink chuckles. "You're high already? This can't be your first time with drugs." His voice sounds faraway.

Aoba rocks back and forth until he can't bear it anymore. He opens his eyes, breathing shallowly. He fumbles for his pack and locates the tiny bottle, twisting the cap, swallowing a few painkillers. Then he waits, head between his knees, breathing through his nose, exhaling through his mouth.

Mink doesn't say anything. Even if he did say anything, Aoba doesn't think he would hear him. Gradually the stabbing pain in his skull lessens enough that Aoba opens his eyes and stares at his feet. He's covered in a light sheen of sweat, shaking.

When he looks up Mink is still there. Their eyes meet. And something in the other man's cold stare connects with Aoba on such an intimate level that he shivers involuntarily. Aoba looks away but Mink is still watching him….

He's not alone. There's someone else. Someone's in the room.

Aoba cries out as a spike of phantom pain erupts so intensely he's momentarily blinded. He folds into himself, gasping violently. Mink is saying something but Aoba can't focus but for the repeating thought: someone's in here with me. Someone has been watching me. Someone's—

He gets to his feet with resolve he did not know he'd possessed. Staggers down the stairs. He has to get away from that person. He can get lost in the crowd, maybe.

Aoba staggers alone out onto the dance floor and groans, but can't hear his own voice. The lights flash too erratically for him to discern his surroundings. This was a bad idea.

"HEY NOW, ARE YOU OKAY?"

One of the moshers is yelling at him. He seems friendly, if very loud. Aoba covers his ears.

"LISTEN, JUST KEEP YOUR HEAD UP! IS THIS YOUR FIRST TIME OUT HERE? YOU LOO…ESSED UP!"

Shit. Aoba can feel himself fading in and out of consciousness.

"Y'KNO…IS LIGHT MAKES YOU MORE SEN…RE A GUY! YOU THIN…TRUE?"

Aoba feels a limp hand on his torso and goes stiff.

"WE CAN TEST IT OUT, YEAH?"

It's the first sentence that's registered completely with Aoba. He feels sick. He's going to vomit all over this idiot before the other guy even gets a chance to feel him up. And he turns away—

* * *

—there's a flash, the worst pain yet and the colors invert as if from a negative photograph—

* * *

—and he looks back at the guy.

"…Don't touch me," says Sly coolly, voice raised to be heard over the music.

The other man falters. Even with the pounding music, his lips are readable. Sly leans in so he doesn't have to repeat himself twice.

"I said, don't touch me."

The guy backs off and his steps are uneven. "Uh…oh—OKAY."

Sly watches him go, then looks around for stragglers. It's been too long since he had a good—

* * *

—the _flash_ interrupts his thoughts, and Sly growls, clutching his head roughly despite the sensitivity of his hair—

* * *

—Aoba wakes up on the floor. The lights are flashing pink and red. People step around his body. Ren's voice registers, but Aoba can't make out a word through the pounding beat. Every note from the bass rattles him to the core. The song changes to a new measure, a high-pitched electronic verse that pierces his thoughts like a drill to the temple.

Someone's breathing heavily. It might be part of the song. Aoba isn't sure. The singer's voice resonates through the electronic instrumental, melodious and sweet. He feels the noise in his bones. Deeper.

Blood spills across his vision. He must be dreaming….

He isn't sure.

* * *

Mink remains detached, watching from the window.

Aoba's figure vanishes, then reappears in the light of the strobe, prone and motionless upon the dancefloor. Mink taps his fingers on the arm of the sofa, watching the bodies undulate under the pulsing light, watching Aoba lie motionless. Then he stands, and heads for the dancefloor.

* * *

"…hey."

Something hits him across the cheek and his eyes are open. Mink is there, body turning red and pink in the lights. It's a bad match against the music, mid-tempo and softer than before. This club is no place for slow-dancing.

Mink clicks his tongue. "What are you doing? Get up," he orders. Aoba's legs are useless and his head screams with pain. It should be humiliating as Mink hauls him with seemingly little effort to his feet. Aoba falls almost immediately.

A broad arm wraps around his back and Aoba is shepherded across the dancefloor. Aoba coughs through the red dribbling from his nose. Must be broken. A giggle escapes him and the blood bubbles.

Mink ignores this. Some woman ambles up to them.

"Oi, are you gonna help that kid? He's fuckin' hiiiigh off his ass!" She laughs, definitely sozzled. "And what about youuu, mister? Are you new too?"

Mink pushes her away and keeps walking, Aoba mumbling incoherently behind him. They stop just the door. Aoba stumbles and nearly collapses right there.

"What are you doing?" Mink thunders, grabbing him tightly.

Aoba giggles again, throwing his arms around the other man's neck.

"Oi!" Mink growls, shoving Aoba back.

And this time Aoba senses what is coming—

* * *

—light flashes across his vision and heat floods every fiber of his being, the urge to ruin and be ruined— _I want to destroy everything_ —

* * *

—he's leaning on Mink's shoulder, panting softly. Sly exhales, breath hot in his lungs, and burrows his head into Mink's powerful chest and inhales the scent of cinnamon and mansculinity. Animal magnetism.

"Enough," Mink growls.

"Lemme do it, Sly mumbles. Mink doesn't move. "Want you to destroy me," Sly says, voice slurring. "Right here. Ruin me."

Mink gazes down at the man under him. Blood oozes thick down his pale face like syrup. His eyes gleam gold, reflecting green and pink and blue. Then he starts walking again, dragging the other man by the arm, grip like iron.

In a dark side-room, Mink pushes Sly up against the metal wall to jolt him out of his stupor, throws a knee between his legs to keep him grounded and holds both wrists beside his head.

"…So this is your true character," he says quietly.

"The fuck are you saying? You think you're a parrot or some shit?" Sly mumbles, with just the hint of a whine. "I just _told_ you what I want, old man."

Mink snorts. "Idiot. Strip," he commands, and Sly gasps when the man shoves both hands down his pants and cups him through thin fabric.

(It's not a pained sound, and Mink feels a stab of something closer to antipathy when the man turns his head up, nose streaming with blood, eyes golden, for once, betraying ambivalence.)

"Someone might see us…" Sly mutters.

"Don't care."

The thought of exhibitionism is somehow hilarious. Sly giggles again. Grunts softly when his pants are shoved down his hips, belt disregarded, exposing him to the air. There's a pause while the two men stare.

"You're already like this, and I haven't even touched you," says Mink quietly.

Sly shudders. He's got a gloved hand around himself and the leather feels rough, chafing against his skin. He thinks he could grow to like it. "Don't get impatient, old man," he mumbles, panting a little. When Mink says nothing but continues to stare at the regularity of his fist, he sighs: "C'mon, hurry it up."

Mink's expression never changes. Sly feels his knees hit concrete and the contact registers deep in his gut.

"Then do it yourself," he rumbles, curling a broad hand in Sly's hair and tugging brusquely to indicate his intentions. Sly shivers despite himself, nerves frayed from the contact, and with shaking fingers begins to work on Mink's belt. It's easier to undo than he thinks it will be, and once he tugs Mink's pants down he's face-to-face with his dick, already half-hard.

The sound of the club music bleeds together into a shapeless buzz as Sly takes Mink in his mouth and Mink's hand is heavy on the back of his head, pushing him forward. Sly's nose is buried in crotch, and Sly gags, sentient enough to panic. He knows he's going to vomit, anticipates it, but never does. He thinks he might be crying a little. He can't breathe and it's such a rush, such a hedonistic thing to do. Semi-public sex.

Suddenly, Mink makes a rough, animal sound like a snarl and shoves Sly off, grabs his arm and pulls him to his feet like a ragdoll. Sly's side meets the wall and he wonders if his limb is going to be dislocated. He decides he doesn't care as Mink pulls his leg up past his waist and pushes in.

Sly's scream is strangled. The back of his head smacks the wall. Whiplash.

Mink fucks him without recess. Sly can't catch his breath, he can't think for the pain that courses through every fiber of his being, followed instantaneously by exhilaration.

At some point Mink stops.

"Satisfied yet?" he grunts, panting softly. His voice hardly wavers.

Sly struggles for air. Distantly, the bass picks up, vibrating in his chest. He's practically sobbing as he begs Mink to continue.

And Mink huffs, slamming him into the wall again, then again, and he keeps on going—Sly's too raw to scream anymore, just squeaks and gasps and whimpers in time with the rhythm, clawing at Mink's broad shoulders. He can't stop shuddering, twisting under Mink's bulk. His noises are drowned in the music and the sound of wet flesh. He's so hard it hurts. He comes so forcefully he almost screams again, but his lungs are starving for air and he's dizzy, gasping thinly, finding no relief. Mink follows shortly afterward and pins Sly's limp body upright with his weight.

Coming down from the high, Sly realizes how tired he is. It's like his energy drained right out of him with the semen.

"Hah."

He's not too tired to laugh.

Mink is speaking but his voice is too low for Sly to make out what is being said.

So Sly closes his eyes and falls into the sweet oblivion of sleep.

* * *

And Aoba opens his eyes, expecting to see the dark and grimy walls of the club-alley.

Instead, he sees Mink, and the walls of their room in Glitter. Mink meets his eye, but doesn't say anything.

As soon as he leaves Aoba tries to sit up and there's a vicious pain in his—fuck. Aoba sits back, breathing heavily.

He doesn't want to look at Mink anymore. He reaches into his bag and pops a single painkiller—he's running short—then turns on Ren.

 _aoba?_ Ren asks, evidently worried right off the bat. _your heart rate is elevated. are you worried about what happened last night?_

Aoba doesn't want to think about it, but it's eating away at him. He gathers his nerve to ask: "He—the Other—he didn't do anything?"

 _no. only mink knows about him. he was getting out of hand. mink made him stop._

Aoba buries his face partially in trembling hands. "Is that why he—?"

Ren snuffs softly.

 _i don't know, aoba. i'm sorry._

Aoba shakes his head. "It's not your fault, Ren." He ruffles the Spitz behind the ears. Ren whines a little.


End file.
